


King's Great Matter

by strigital



Series: Feral Hearts [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Both the Empire and the Stormcloaks Lost the War, Courtship, Divorce, Drabble, Drama & Romance, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Forced Marriage, Friendship, Getting Back Together, Good Dragons Kicked Alduin's Ass, Hate Sex, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infidelity, Jealousy, Language, Marriage Proposal, Miraak Lives (Elder Scrolls), Miraak is the new High King of Skyrim, Misunderstandings, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Royalty, Sex, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, and also king!Miraak AU just sits so right with me, for some reason i couldn't stop comparing Miraak to king Henry VIII, my first proper work in english language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28561623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strigital/pseuds/strigital
Summary: "And Miraak, being a man who always thought of himself as born to rule, grabbed the throne with both hands without the intention to give it up easily. Yes, indeed, he enjoyed his newfound power and, more importantly, the ability to make certain adjustments to the situation in his new kingdom, take it a bit closer to what it used to be in his youth. There was this one problem, though… It would seem he shan’t have his harem of virgins, like back in the good old days. He needed a queen. Alas, it would appear that he would not get to choose his wife this time… His councilors had already set their eyes upon what they called “a reasonable candidate”.Specifically, Elisif the Fair."
Relationships: Elisif the Fair/Miraak, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Miraak
Series: Feral Hearts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1504310
Kudos: 13





	King's Great Matter

The day he had learned of another Dragonborn’s arrival onto Nirn he rejoiced, for he could finally begin the daunting quest of liberating himself from his slavery to the Gardener of Men, as he had carefully planned for the past millennia in secret from his all-seeing master. But when said Dragonborn desolated his shrines, slaughtered his followers and desecrated his temple he became furious... as well as intrigued! With a soul so mighty, he thought, Hermaeus Mora would surely be powerless to stop him from breaking his chains! But fate is a cruel mistress and has ways of throwing one’s hopes and dreams into the fire. And as fate would have it, Miraak met his adversary a lot sooner than he had hoped and in the circumstances that he had not planned, at a time that he did not expect it.

And just like that, the whole world got turned upside down. Shattered to pieces. Reborn anew.

The Last Dragonborn did not fall from the sickly-green skies of Apocrypha nor did he charge at Miraak from behind a corner with a fury of a thousand suns... Or, at least, he believed his nemesis to be a man. A lithe young son of Skyrim, hiding his features behind finely crafted carved Nordic armor and a mask of the legendary Konahrik of whom Miraak only heard through rare gossip that reached his far-off island kingdom. This was supposed to be easy. But Akatosh, it would seem, enjoyed a good irony. He stumbled upon her – yes, _her_ – amidst the endless corridors of black and green where nothing but rotting books and slimy beasts dwelt. Apocrypha was the same day after day, century after century; unchanging, unyielding, static and bland, just like the many-eyed demon that oversaw this Garden of Secrets. But on that day there was a splash of blue and white, as if a tiny piece of summer skies before his very own eyes…

Skin the color of an overcast sky, blue and gray, with pink hues were hot blood ran close to the surface of the skin that looked as soft as silk and oh sweet grief how strongly he desired to find out if it were true with his very own fingers. Hair not a snow white, but a white of pearls, flowing in waves and braids over the fur-covered shoulders, glowing like a bright winter‘s sun. And those strange pointed ears that looked like arrowheads, oh dear! No Nord young man could ever look so strange, he thought. This creature must be one of those Snow Elves he had heard so much about, even though he never saw one in person. And then she turned, a gaze of sparkling sapphire eyes locked upon the dusty pages of some tome she plucked from an endlessly long shelf. Her face with pleasant round edges was no more hidden by the vicious eyes and sharp tusks of Konahrik the Warlord, it was adorned with freckles that looked like snowflakes upon her cheeks. Red as blood swirls and lines dotted her forehead, ran over those fascinating eyes and across devilishly pink lips. The warpaint glowed against her otherwise pale silhouette, capturing and mesmerizing his gaze. The prisoner of Apocrypha felt his heart beat against his chest for the first time in five thousand years and then… Their eyes met. And their draconic souls collided like sea waves against eternal glaciers. Fury and rage blackened those shining eyes as his sworn enemy disappeared into seemingly thin air, whisked away by the Black Book’s enigmatic magic. And as he stood there, looking at the spot where she just stood a mere heartbeat ago, he felt an echo of her scent in the cold air of Apocrypha: lilies of the valley, pine wood smoke, weathered leather… Doubt settled into his mind and soul for the first time in his life. It weren’t the walls of his prison which were now crumbling around him, but rather the plans he had built so carefully for centuries and decades.

He felt lost.

Confused.

_Scared_.

And then they met again in the darkness of his cell, a day or, maybe, a week later (time was hard to track in this place of stagnation). He ceased breathing for a moment when he caught her thin shadow fall upon the cold black stones. A mask of indifference set on her face, but her piercing sapphire eyes screamed… of hope? When she spoke, he thought he heard forest birds.

“I know who you are and I know what you desire most. I can give you that.” She paused for a moment that felt like a tiny eternity, which Miraak drank up like spring water, taking in her every ethereal and otherworldly feature. “For a price, of course,” she finished, a coy smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

Then she spoke of her plan to free him in return for his help. Alduin himself was decimating her homeland and she - this small pale creature - was thrown against him by those who deemed her a hero. But defeating Akatosh’s firstborn was no meek feat and she needed more than just a few willing warriors and a loyal dragon to help her. She needed him. One like her, with a soul like his. And he in return needed her, for she knew a way out. Without anyone needing to unceremoniously die.

He listened. But to her voice, not her words. He was enchanted, driven to her by the force unknown, as if he was a moth and she a lantern. Her soul, her _Sil_ , sung to his, calling, beckoning, whispering. He wanted to devour that pristine soul. Savor it little by little. But to do that, he had to kill her in a deadly dispute, as tradition dictated.

And for once Miraak, the First Dragonborn and the last dragon priest, knew what he had to do, but doubted if he had the strength - the _will -_ to do so.

But he, being a creature of habit and a lover of predictability, needed time to think. To sleep on each and every word she spoke. Consider the possible future out there, back home, on Nirn, where not a single living thing remembered his name. The thought of his freedom looming so close had scared him. What was he but a sheep kept in a barn since it was a lamb, now being offered a whole pasture of its own? And by a wolf, no less.

He rejected her words and warned her to keep her distance, for he was her mortal enemy and she shan’t come so close to him, lest he _devoured_ her.

But Konahrik, that stubborn fool, visited a few more times after that; she seemingly had taken his threat as an offer. Each time she used different words to offer the same deal. Each time Miraak refused, even if his heart screamed each time he shook his head in denial. After all, it was his freedom that was at stake, freedom which was stolen from him for thousands of years. He simply could not give everything up now, not after the massive work that was already done. Not because of just some pretty face he saw for the first time in millennia and felt some sort of connection to. He stood by his decision until the end. He was, after all, master of his own fate.

And when the time came, their swords and Thu’um finally clashed at the Summit of his prison. On that day Miraak was prepared to die, but not to give up. Alas, when he fell to the ground mortally wounded and defeated, tangled in Herma Mora’s endless slime-ridden tentacles, ready to face his maker and gain his freedom from this insufferable existence unworthy to be called life he… didn’t die. Against all odds he was spared. That damned pale creature with the tusked mask had it her way in the end. Later, he would often think of it as a sort of a joke from Akatosh himself. Or fate. He couldn’t decide which one was a crueler master…

It has been a few years since the day Miraak awoke back on Nirn, broken and bleeding, but very much alive. His savior – Nim, she called herself, a dark elf – tended to his wounds and offered him her deal once more. Now, an independent man free of Hermaeus Mora’s sticky grip, he felt an unspeakable desire to just run wherever his feet would take him and taste life for the first time in eternity. Her words, however, sounded stern:

“You owe me, you know. And if you’re at least half an honorable man, you _will_ help me. Otherwise I might tell a _certain_ upset Daedric Lord where to look for his lost pet.”

To think, the very first thing he got to experience back on Nirn was an ultimatum! Alas, she sounded serious and so he agreed, albeit through gritted teeth. Miraak would serve her as a loyal (that term used very loosely) companion for as long as Alduin breathed. The moment his lifeless body would fall from the skies of Sovngarde, the First Dragonborn would disappear never to be bothered by mortal problems again. How simple this seemed back then. Some five years ago…

But so much watered had flowed by since then.

Seasons changed. One sworn enemy fell, another rose in his place. Friends were found and lost. Few precious moments of careless joy inevitably got tarnished by the needless deaths of those who least deserved it. Tears were cried and smiles were shared. Angry words were shouted, kind ones were whispered and some others not spoken at all…

Then their _Sil_ began to sing in unison like swans and Miraak - somewhere in the deepest crevices of his atrophied heart - felt a pang of warmth, hope and… a new kind of fear. And she too seemingly felt it. So they remained silent - the only speaking done with lips and tongues – and the quiet song between their souls just kept growing ever more deafening.

Dragons aren’t supposed to love, such is the natural law of their existance. They are creatures of domination, as well as habits. They hate change and fight it like fish fight a fishing net. And yet there’s always a way, a chance to accept it, no matter how painful it could be. Yollomir, for example, turned from Alduin’s most loyal sergeant, known to ancient Nords as the Hateful Serpent, to mankind’s most loyal defender and the Dovahkiin’s most trusted friend. Paarthurnax too had managed to transform his tyrannical nature into a peaceful one. Perhaps there was yet hope for Miraak as well. He’d endure these growing pains and emerge on the other side a new man, a snake with the new skin, an eagle with the new plumage. How hard could this possibly be?

But dragons _hate_ change. So clinging to what felt familiar and, thusly, safe was what he did. _She-dragon_ did so too.

The song between their _Sil_ remained unsung.

Trees grew taller since those times. The grasses had devoured dry draconic bones, weeds overtaken empty mounds and young forests sprouted over old battlefields. Skyrim no longer remembered the chaos that once tore at her flesh. After so much time reminiscing of it all seemed like such a foolish idea. But what else to do in evenings dull and gloomy than to dream of what would, could and should have happened?..

“My good king is feeling well tonight?”

Miraak’s eyes snapped open as he jerked awake from a light nap into which he fell overtaken by exhaustion. He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, feeling the unpleasant waves of a headache creeping in and grabbed a gilded cup filled with spiced wine. A few hearty gulps later, he finally faced his loyal hound who sat by his right arm.

“I am tired of you constantly mothering me as well as this whole ordeal, but otherwise I am fine, thank you for inquiring” said tiredly the new High King of Skyrim to Jorleif, who was busy receiving a new full cup of mead from a pretty servant boy he was eying far more lustfully than his sweet drink. “There is roast boar, fine wine, blushing maidens, jolly music and over a hundred fat old noblemen all gathered here today to marry me off to their supple daughters. Or, perhaps, sway me into giving them empty titles and signing petty treaties. Either way I am being hounded from all sides.”

“Such is the woeful nature of all kings, my Lord.” The old steward nodded in solidarity and finally peeled his hungry eyes away from the servant as he had vanished into the crown with an empty jug of mead. “On the other hand, my king is delaying his unfortunate betrothal to Lady Elisif the Fair. Once more.”

The king leaned back into his ornate oaken chair stood at the head of the table full of supple meats, sweet desserts and crunchy fruit. His eyes scanned the entirety of the hall stuffed to the brim with well-dressed bodies. The She-Jarl was nowhere to be seen. Good. He had heard she was so certain of his eventual proposal she did not even care to come and attend these kinds of parties, thrown mostly for young debutantes brought from all over Skyrim and kingdoms beyond by their parents in an attempt to sway His Majesty into a political alliance. The official reason for these feasts was an attempt for the king to find a better match for himself: someone younger, richer, more fertile and obedient, with friends in high places and, maybe, a sizable levy. Elisif, however, saw herself as the ripest of fruits on this tree of political matchmaking and worried not for her chances. To Miraak’s dismay if he would not find soon a suitable match who would also be well liked by his huge and capricious court, he would absolutely have to marry Elisif. Most of Skyrim’s nobles drooled over this alliance that would completely block off the Empire of Cyrodiil’s access to Skyrim through Solitude’s ports. The kingdom would finally be independent and united. After so many years of bloodshed, stability and peace was what the people of Skyrim needed and wanted most. And Miraak, being a wise High King, had to put the people’s needs above his own.

Fortunately, he was already well-versed in the subtle arts of monarchy thanks to his scandalous past as the High Priest and Jarl of Solstheim back in the olden days of Draconic Tyranny. Unfortunately, back then harems were far more fashionable than a single wife and thusly Miraak was completely disarmed when it came to royal matchmaking, courtship and choosing the perfect woman to be his companion in life, a lover in bed, a mother to his children and a regent of his lands in his absence. And so, he did not attempt to convince his court of Elisif’s unfitness to be his bride. No, the problem was much more… personal.

The thing was… Miraak really, _really_ disliked getting used rags.

The fact was, everyone with a tad bit of love for rumors knew of Elisif’s reputation as the Empire’s little puppet queen. What they also knew was that she, besides the first thing, was just plain and simply a lusty whore. Barely three years after her most dearly beloved Torugg journeyed to Sovngarde she jumped into bed with his killer - Ulfric Stormcloak. She painted it as a necessity forced onto her by the Stormcloaks taking the victor’s flag in the Civil War. Alas, the chatty housemaids from the Blue Palace whispered of Elisif’s utterly disgusting behavior, unsuited for a recent widow. And once Ulfric himself met his maker after his short yet violent rule, Elisif was once more single and ready to mingle, as the common folk say.

And now, when the people of Skyrim put the savior of their kingdom on the throne, Elisif had ordered the preparations for yet another massive wedding feast in Solitude. The audacity of the woman jarred Miraak, but even he could not wiggle his way out of this unpleasant situation. He had to find someone better than Elisif among all these pretty young debutantes that arrived at his weekly feasts or, if he failed to do so, take the Fair Lady of Solitude to altar, crown her and make her pregnant. Otherwise, the banners of war shall be swaying in the wind once more.

_“My king has to root himself in Skyrim.”_ Said Jorleif once at a breakfast. _“Right now, as you are unwed and without an heir and a spare, anyone could denounce you as a usurper! Another war for the crown is not what this poor famished kingdom needs, my good Lord. I shan’t blame my king for not wanting to wed a woman he has no heart for, but you must secure your kingly right! And if she happens to be that unpleasant of a company, take yourself a mistress or two! No one will judge my Lord if he decides to only talk to his queen through messenger boys or to shirk his bedchamber duties.”_

The old king sighed.

Oh if only Elisif wasn’t the only golden fish in this shallow pond of possibility... Once upon a time he had the chance to take one very special kind of woman to the altar and he knew for a fact not one dog in all of Skyrim would bark in discontent. Alas, no one seen her, dead or alive, for a very long time now. Alduin has been slain almost two years ago, Ulfric the Tyrant had met his doom a little over a year ago. And not a month back the whole of kingdom drank to the new High King’s first coronation anniversary. And Nim has been missing for almost half his reign.

_Where was she?!_ That was the question everyone was asking and almost everyone had their very own theory as to what exactly had befell the last Dragonborn. Some gossiped that she had married overseas, or died of plague, or was assassinated… Others claimed they saw her with their very own eyes and the locations of such sightings varied from Alinor to the Imperial City, from the road beside some bloke’s farm to just outside these castle walls.

Of course the people _talked_. She was a hero, after all. The second half of their mighty Dragonborn duet that liberated Skyrim from the World Eater’s terror. Once they descended back to Nirn from Sovngarde, beaten, bleeding, but victorious, the entirety of Skyrim put their differences aside for the next few weeks. Celebrations went on for days and nights in every city, town and hamlet. The whole of kingdom was dead drunk for at least an entire month. Both Miraak and Nim were recognized and praised by every passerby on every street corner! Jarls gifted them both lands and titles, rich noblemen sent them expensive gifts of fine silks, exotic drinks, purebred steeds, hunting hounds, offers to marry or to become partners in business…

Then Ulfric got a bit too drunk on his own power and the Dragonborns descended onto him in his little castle of stone on top of their dragons and reminded His Majesty just what exactly the people of Skyrim thought of trampled honor and betrayed trust. After that songs and tales of their heroic deeds grew in numbers every day.

Then, one day, during the annual burning of King Olaf, Nim, drunk off her ass, recited the tragic tale of one particular dragon priest, ruler of Solstheim, the First Dragonborn amongst men to good ol’ Viarmo, who gladly went over a stack of parchment in his hunger for another epic tale to author: Olaf’s tale made him a celebrity, but this would make him a king amongst minstrels! It didn’t take long for that drunken tale to grow into a myth retold in each and every tavern across Skyrim. Suddenly, people knew who Miraak was. And even though there certainly were those who despised him for his past actions, the majority of Skyrim’s citizen’s began to hail him as the one true High King of Skyrim, sent to them by Kyne herself in this time of dire need.

And could you blame them? There he was, this giant, wide-shouldered man of pure Atmoran blood, born amongst the same cruel freezing wastes of Atmora as Ysgramor himself, the man who was blessed by Akatosh with the soul of the Dov, the man who first dared to rebel against the tyranny of Alduin and paid with his life for such a betrayal! In the eyes of a simple hardworking Nord man Miraak was indeed a demigod, a mighty hero like those who dine eternally in the halls of Sovngarde, a perfect example of Skyrim’s true king. No one else seemed more fit to wear the Jagged Crown! And no one else seemed to be a better match for a fierce, honorable shieldmaiden such as Nim. Oh, yes, the people _talked_.

And Miraak, being a man who always thought of himself as born to rule, grabbed the throne with both hands without the intention to give it up easily. Yes, indeed, he enjoyed his newfound power and, more importantly, the ability to make certain adjustments to the situation in his new kingdom, take it a bit closer to what it used to be in his youth. There was this one problem, though… It would seem he shan’t have his harem of virgins, like back in the good old days. He needed a queen. Alas, it would appear that he would not get to choose his wife this time… His councilors had already set their eyes upon what they called “a reasonable candidate”.

Specifically, Elisif the Fair.

“My king seems to have fallen into a deep consideration.” Jorleif’s slightly drunken tone rang at Miraak’s right shoulder. “May I dare to ask what exactly is my Lord considering?”

The king waved at the servant to refill his cup with the finest drink at the table – gods only knew how much he needed alcohol’s magical ability to ease one’s mind and body. Then, after a hearty gulp of fine cold drink, he spoke: “What can a man in my position, drunk on wine and music, stuck at the feast he is utterly failing to enjoy, consider, my dear loyal hound?”

He paused to drink again. “Well, women of course.”

“Dare I presume it is not the Fair Lady of Solitude my Lord reminisces of?” Jorleif’s bushy brow shot up in curiosity.

“Do not joke so cruelly,” chuckled Miraak and immediately furrowed his brow in poorly hidden discontent. “I would gladly spend the rest of my life avoiding any thoughts of her.”

“Ah.” Nodded Jorleif, his movements slowed and clumsy due to alcohol. “The Lady Dragonborn it is then.”

Miraak remained silent for a minute. His wrinkle-framed, woodland-green irises set in ponds of inky blackness, ran across every flush and drunkenly smiling face in the hall. He hoped, falsely perhaps, to spot the familiar shine of sharp wolfish eyes the color of sapphires. He hoped to catch them at every feast, party and gathering he attended. No way that capricious coquette would miss out on just popping out of the crowd one day and asking him of his day like she never went missing in the first place.

Alas, the crowd was empty of her pale blue silhouette that he had yearned to glimpse at once more. Unbearable, it was utterly unbearable to live with the knowledge that they could have had it all… If only he didn’t keep his mouth shut!

So many countless dark cold nights they spent tearing clothes off of each other! All those stays in inns and taverns that would end up with them sharing a hot bath, caring not if they flooded the floors beneath them! Oh and the treks through the woods that would inevitably end with them shoving each other against the trees! They were always, always so famished for each other and yet… They said _nothing_. For her it was just another fling, like any other, just one of many she had over her long seventy years of life. For him it was just sating the dragon within, suppressing the hunger for her soul with the devouring of her body.

It was so _obvious_ , back then. Even the folk around them were getting ideas.

Marcurio and even that coldblooded bitch Serana remarked on their painfully obvious attraction towards each other. People would ask them if they were planning to pay a visit to Maramal at Mara’s Temple in Riften, but they would just glance awkwardly at their feet. They didn’t know what they were to each other. It was all a tangled mess of new feelings, burning lust and an unspeakable familiarity invoked by the song that resonated between their draconic souls, their _Sil_.

And then one night she just up and left without a word.

Marcurio just shrugged, when asked the morning after where she went. Said, if she had something to do alone, no one could convince her otherwise. Just let her deal with her problems, Marcurio said back then. She’ll be back sooner or later, added Serana and reminded Miraak that she was more than capable enough to take care of herself. After all, she bested the First Dragonborn himself in a deadly dispute! An entire army couldn’t take Konahrik down!

And so he waited. Waited for her to come back. Day after day. After all… Waiting was what Miraak was exceptionally _good_ at.

“Well, my good Lord?”

Miraak snapped back into reality again. Another unconscious plunge into memories and dreams. They were happening more often the closer his dreaded marriage to that woman loomed on the horizon. It would seem his dragon howled for its lost piece like a dog calling out for a missing mate. He missed the warm resonance between their souls. Their _Sil_ humming quietly in unison each time they were close… The silence was getting unbearable. But he had no idea where to look for her…

“M’lord?..”

“I heard you the first time,” growled Miraak and shot Jorleif a stern look. “I am thinking.”

“Pardon me my audacious impudence, my King.” Old Nord’s head bobbed up and down as he profusely bowed to his Lord. “But I must ask if among all the debutantes that were brought here today my King has spotted the one he likes?”

Miraak glanced over at the little gathering of puffy dresses in all possible colors of the rainbow. Young girls, most of whom had left their homes for the first time in their lives, raised like fragile birds behind gilded bars, completely unaware of what truly was happening around them… They laughed and giggled, their cheeks red from tasting alcohol for the first time, their eyes glistening in the candlelight. They were mere children, born and raised to be nothing more but diplomatic tools. Just pawns on the giant board of dog-eat-dog game.

Miraak felt truly sorry for them. They needn’t be here. Suffer through miles upon miles of exhausting journey just to be paraded before him like cattle at the village fair.

“No, I do not,” said Miraak, sternly. His eyes still locked onto those little colorful birds captured in this massive cage of stone, he drank deeply from his cup, letting the warm waves of wine wash over him. “I am so tired of all this… Be a dear, Jorleif, do not announce of my departure. Let the guest have their party for a little longer.”

“Are you sure, Sire?” asked Jorleif as Miraak got up clumsily from his chair and turned towards the doors to his private chambers.

“I cannot stand bootlicking. Especially now, when I am drunk, tired and in need of solitude. I would rather get away quietly. If anyone asks, the King is unwell and shan’t see anyone until further notice.”

The advisor nodded in understanding. “Yessir. It shall be as you say.”

Without another word, Miraak waddled his way back to his chamber, refusing every each servant asking humbly to help the good King, who seemed week in his knees. Exhausted, he was so damn exhausted beyond belief. Weeks upon weeks of politeness visits, dinner parties, feasts, balls, hunting gatherings… Diplomats, merchants, generals and gods know who else needed the new King to solve their piling troubles. Skyrim was in shambles, after all. The Empire left a deep wound in the kingdom’s treasury, not to mention all the death and destruction. Everyone needed him, but not one of them bothered to know what he wanted…

Oh if it were the old days he would have had all these people writhing in fear before him! They would kneel and bow in respect! Oh how mighty and terrible he once was! He had a palace fit for a king of kings, a harem of virgins, an army of loyalists, even dragons as his bodyguards! He was no less of a tyrant than Alduin himself. But those were different times… Now though… He was a new man. Changed by the improbable circumstances of his escape from Apocrypha. One certain woman unwittingly sowed the seeds of change into him. The way she called him for breakfast every morning, even though she was in no way obligated to be kind towards him. The love with which she hugged her adopted children back home at the Lakeview manor after weeks of travel. The trust with which she’d curl up to sleep beneath Yollokmir’s wide leathery wings, warming him with her body, trusting in him to keep her safe through the night. The responsibility with which she took care of Skyrim’s most burdensome troubles… Miraak couldn’t - _wouldn_ _’t_ \- commit acts of tyranny simply out of the tremendous respect he had for her and her actions. He couldn’t imagine the look on her face if she returned to the kingdom of brutality and ruin. The very thought of seeing the look of utter betrayal in her eyes made him shudder! No, he already betrayed her once; he would never dare to do so again!

The heavy forged door slammed behind Miraak’s back and he stared longingly at his vast empty bed, which stood hidden in the dark blues of a late winter night. He would dream of her again, that much he suspected. He didn’t mind - he saw it as a sign that the far echo of her soul still reached him and, thusly, she was still alive. He threw the heavy snow bear fur cloak off of his shoulders, feeling a mountain of responsibility fall off with it, at crashed onto the bed, unable to remove the rest of his heavy royal attire. The servants would usually be swarming by him at this time, undressing the King with silent respect, preparing His Majesty for the night, as was the tradition. Tonight, though, he had them all sent away. Solitude was what he wanted most now.

Strange…

He never thought that after escaping Apocrypha he would ever miss being alone. Having spent thousands of years in isolation, his only companions being the hulking creatures of slime and tendrils, he thought he would never be able to enjoy even a single moment spent alone. Alas, right now he wanted just that. But also…

He needed silence. To listen to it and try to hear…

The faint echo of a quiet, far-away song, quietly sung by another _Sil_. He would fall asleep to it, imagining the scent of lilies of the valley, pine wood smoke and weathered leather.

**Author's Note:**

> Dovahzul:
> 
> Sil - soul


End file.
